


Rien

by mybelovedcheshire



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, book!verse, but this is painful and it hurts, the relationship is IMPLIED in the sense that this leads up to it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 13:44:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybelovedcheshire/pseuds/mybelovedcheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire attempts to prove to Enjolras that he’s not a useless drunk — that he can be as literate and fervent as the rest of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rien

**Author's Note:**

> This work has been translated into Russian by [protein](http://archiveofourown.org/users/protein/pseuds/protein), and can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2141943). Thank you!

“Grantaire,” Enjolras interrupted, “go home.”

Like a dog kicked by its master, Grantaire seemed to physically shrink. 

He’d been unapologetically distracting Bahorel and Feuilly for the last hour while Enjolras and Combeferre squabbled about the divine right of revolution. It was Grantaire’s least favourite topic -- among many, granted, but there was little he liked less than listening to someone he idolised preach about their completely avoidable commitment to suicide. 

Perhaps knocking the candle over -- on to paper maps -- had been a bit to excess, but they’d been having fun, and if Enjolras hadn’t called him out, he was fairly positive he could have gotten Bossuet to break the chair he was sitting in simply by laughing. 

He dropped the empty bottle that he’d stolen from Bahorel and sat down. “Did I interrupt?” he asked, steeling his tone to his usual nonchalance. “I didn’t realise you were discussing something important.”

Enjolras’s jaw tightened. He was being baited, he knew. 

“You’re drunk,” their fair-haired chief said quietly. “Go home.”

A spark flashed in Grantaire’s eyes. Perhaps if he had been drunk, he’d have found another bottle and unhappily dragged himself home -- but he wasn’t, and in his sobriety, he was unwilling to let the accusation stand.

“I’m not, actually,” he countered. Enjolras’s cool, piercing eyes narrowed. “I swear it, I’m not.” He recited the first piece of poetry to pop into his head, just to prove the point. That it was lusty and amorous and rather in favour of love in place of war was somewhat unintentional. 

Enjolras’s frown deepened, but Jehan stifled a giggle. Jehan, after all, had been the one to teach him that. Grantaire winked at him. 

And then Grantaire kicked back and put his feet up on the table. “You were discussing the divine right of revolution, no? That mankind, when faced by tyranny, have the authority to overthrow their oppressors because that is the natural cycle.”

Enjolras said nothing. 

“And you’re quite right,” Grantaire added. 

Every eye in the room turned from him, to Enjolras. Enjolras didn’t look away from the dark-haired cynic. 

Combeferre cleared his throat. “He’s not, actually.” The entire room seemed to settle slightly. “That’s not the natural cycle-- what is natural is to resist oppression, and to overcome it in time. Not to stand up and throw off the yoke in a single day.”

“But to be bound in slavery--” Enjolras started, but Grantaire cut him off. 

“The king represents tyranny, and men under a tyrannical government are not free. The greatest right of man is to his freedom, and giving tyranny time to run off with its tail between its legs is only bowing to that same tyranny. It condones oppression.”

Enjolras listened stoically. 

“You can have your time,” Grantaire continued. “But every second you spend denying the revolution is another second France spends in chains. Why indulge injustice when you can have freedom -- when it is your right, as the oppressed to seize it, and free yourself from bondage? The only excuse is laziness -- it’s lack of fervour, on behalf of the people. But the people of France outnumber the wrongdoers, and the people can be shown the truth of their own misfortune. That’s your line, isn’t it, Combeferre? If you open their eyes to their own misery, how could they not rise? How could they not stand and fight back against their own poverty? And once you make them aware, would you stop them? Or would you deny them their right to understand solely that your revolution might take its... slow, and natural course.”

Grantaire glanced at Enjolas. “Because that’s all we’re waiting for, really. Isn’t it? For the people.”

Enjolras didn’t even blink. 

Grantaire understood. He and everyone in the room knew that if Enjolras had been capable -- and some days, they suspected he may have been -- he’d have taken down the monarchy and every form of tyranny all by himself. 

“The people will bring about a natural revolution,” Combeferre repeated. “When they understand, they will rise.”

“And Enjolras will have his barricades,” Grantaire waved his hand dismissively, “and his fighting, and the government will fall. Because the people will fight -- because it’s their right to fight, and to be free.”

“So you’re not arguing against each other at all,” the once-upon-a-time drunk summarised. “Enjolras can’t have the people for his battle without Combeferre’s steady application of education.” Courfeyrac grinned from ear to ear. Bossuet clutched Joly’s hand under the table, and Jehan smiled softly. “I suppose,” Grantaire added. “That is why you’re friends.”

The Amis at the table laughed. Even Combeferre offered a slight, half-smile. 

“Do you believe any of that?” Enjolras asked quietly. Combeferre bowed his head. 

He and Enjolras had a habit of talking through action -- with quick gestures, and glances, and no need for words. Enjolras had his eyes fixed on Grantaire -- as he had since Grantaire first spoke, but he was fully aware of the clemency Combeferre was willing him to bestow. It was a clemency that Enjolras was unwilling to give. He lifted his chin; Combeferre sighed silently. 

Grantaire exhaled. The colour receded from his cheeks, and once again he was the slightly red-eyed, tousled-haired vagabond they knew. 

“Not a word,” he answered. 

To someone whose dogma was unflinchingly rigid, fighting with false weapons was as insulting as not fighting at all. It made a mockery of his beliefs, and stung in a way that only Grantaire could manage. 

A fire surged underneath Enjolras’s skin. 

If it had been within his power to burn the cancerous cynicism from Grantaire’s mind, he would have done it. He would not have hesitated to lay his hands on the dark-haired man’s chest and melt the flesh from his bones, if it meant saving his mind. 

Part of him still yearned to, powerless though he was. 

Enjolras turned away, picking up a map from the table to carry to one of his favourite spaces, by the window. He had nothing to say to Grantaire. 

And for Grantaire, who felt the silence sharper than any knife in his heart, nothing could have been worse.


End file.
